By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
One of the things Ive always cherished about Kabuki is its blend of extreme stylization of voice and formal moves with moments of quieta line very simply delivered, after a speech in which the actors voice quavers and slides virtuosically up and down pitches, can acquire heartbreaking power. The production of Namiki Senryus play The Summer Festival intensifies the contrast between formality and informality, beginning shortly after we enter the Damrosch Park "tent." The interior has been designed to resemble an Edo-style theaterexcept that the raucous spectators in the "balcony" are painted cutouts, and most of us sit on elegant low-backed chairs. Actors roam through the audience and along the hanamichi, laughing and talking, greeting one another, squabbling as if these were indeed the streets of Osaka during a festival. We could probably do without the Peter Falkstyle voice introducing us to this bustling life (fortunately he disappears, leaving us with a scrupulous headphone translation).
I won't go into the complicated plot. Suffice it to say that the hero, Danshichi (Nakamura Kankuro), is a hot-tempered fishmonger whos just getting out of jail with a pardon; he got involved in a fight (not his fault) and gets into more before hes done. The events that trigger the plot are the attempt by a nasty-natured clansman to kidnap the beloved of Danshichi's wife's son by a previous marriage, and the maiden's subsequent kidnapping by Danshichis scoundrel of a father-in-law. Central to the story is the newfound blood-brotherhood of Danshichi and Tokubei (Nakamura Hashinosuke): what events threaten it and what heroics save it.
We get all the trappings of Kabuki, such as the musicians who underscore the action with percussion or sing a bit of narration about the characters feelings at key moments. And we get the rhythming of certain actions, however mundane. For instance, Danshichis fellow fishmonger Sabu (Bando Yajuro) has brought a clean kimono for his just-released pal, but, uh-oh, no loincloth. Wait, hes an old guy, underwears no big deal; he gets the barber to help him pull his own long red strip of cloth out over the top of his sash. The yanking, which takes a while, is stylized and punctuated by music, while the actors wince at the final tug on his balls is nicely understated and very real; following that, Sabu makes his exit along the hanamichi with a neatly timed bit of near-choreography when he realizes that his kimono may fly open.
The first meeting between the two tremendous actors, Kankuro and Hashinosuke, begins with realistic hostility, yet their characters ensuing duel, once theyve tucked up their kimonos and set to is a formal series of moves in which theyre almost equally balanced. After Danshichis wife Okaji (Nakamura Senjaku) manages to stop the fight, she scolds her husband with the commonplace Just out of jail and already youre fighting!"
Traditional highlights get their due. Danshichi very ceremoniously subdues the villainous Sagaemon (Kataoka Kamezo), bending his arm back and twisting him into various punctuated positions (the other actor must comply while seeming to be struggling), at the same time that hes giving directions to his stepsons sweetheart on how to find her lover. (The delicate maiden with her tiny steps and supply swaying body is played by Kankuros son Shichinosuke.) When the battle is deemed over, the actor playing Sagaemon comes out of character to tell us how extremely well his fellow performer did that scene. I believe this is a traditional possibility; Kankuro is similarly praised onstage after a moving scene involving a complex matter of honor, in which he plays his second role, that of Tokubeis wife, Otatsu. (This is a tour de force; few actors attempt both the male and female roles, let alone in a single play).
There are two prolonged battles. One is realistic to the point of grisliness. The other is a choreographed wonder, akin to the acrobatic wars of Peking Opera. In the first, Danshichi unwillingly fights, accidentally wounds, and finally has to kill his horrid father-in-law Giheji (spindly, scruffy Sasano Takashi is a marvel of coarse feistiness and surprising muscularity). Danshichi fights reluctantly, since parricide mandates being drawn and quartered along with his wife and son, but the old fellow wont die. Men carrying what appear to be lanterns on sticks follow the two to create a chiaroscuro of violence, but at certain points, a bright electric lamp held by one of the black-clad stage managers turns Danshichis frantic face a glaring white. The stage is a wallow of mud, fake blood, and water sloshed from a bucket before Giheji finally succumbs.